It Goes On
by Penn Flinn
Summary: In the end, the tribble died. (Post-ST:ID. Angst, hurt!Jim, and trio friendship. COMPLETE)
1. Ascent

**Hello lovelies! Long time no see! I've been working my butt off on this story, which is why it's been a while since I've posted, but finally it is complete! I'm a bit nervous about this one, as it's probably the most angst-filled thing I've ever written in my life. It will be in two parts, with the second part coming later this weekend. Enjoy!**

**Also, this story was written as heavy friendship within the trio, but it is pretty open-ended in allowance for any ships.**

**Warnings: Some language and description of terminal illness. If that is a trigger, please read with caution.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek. I am also no medical expert, so bear with me.**

* * *

"Welcome back to the world of the living."

The world was warm, soft, fuzzy—but that was probably the morphine talking. Jim Kirk blinked away as much as he could, eventually focusing on Bones' back. "How long was I out?" he tried, but it came out more like "Ho'long z'out?"

"About four hours." It must have been a doctor's gift, to be able to translate medication-induced mumbling. "You passed out in the middle of a sentence, just after you and Spock got all buddy-buddy with the gratitude and all that. Spock was not as amused as I was."

"Damn," Jim said. He tried sitting up, but soon learned that it was impossible: every muscle in his arms shook violently with the effort. Giving up on that, he turned his head to the side. "Sorry, Bones. I'd wanted to talk to you more. Didn't think I'd be asleep so long."

"Yeah, well, it's a hell of a lot better than two weeks," Bones said dryly. He set an instrument down on the side table and glanced backward at Jim. "I'd cut back on the morphine, but I'm not sure even you are ready for that yet. Plus, you need the rest."

"I've been sleeping for two weeks," Jim whined.

"Yes, but your body is still fighting and recovering," Bones insisted. "It's not every day you get injected with super-human blood and rise from the dead. Your body is still adjusting."

"About that," Jim said, squinting. Already some of the medication was wearing off, and while he was grateful for the slightly more stable world, the lights of the hospital burned through his brain. "How'd you come up with a transfusion, of all things? How'd you know it would work?"

"It was a bit of a shot in the dark," Bones admitted gruffly. Now he moved away from Jim's bed across the room. "We'd tested the blood on that tribble, remember?"

The memory was vague—it had been two weeks ago, after all—but it registered. "Yeah, but it didn't do anything."

"Not until hours later," Bones corrected. He opened up a closet door where extra medical supplies were kept while he spoke. "Just as you were brought up to me, the tribble miraculously came back to life. That's how we knew the blood worked."

Then he ducked out of the closet, holding a small, clear, aquarium-like container with holes punched in the sides. Inside, cooing, was the tribble.

"I thought we could keep this here," Bones said, "as a kind of testament to your survival, y'know?" He gripped it awkwardly against his chest, like a treasure he couldn't bear to lose, then placed it on one of the tables at the end of the room. "We can look at this tribble, and see it alive and healthy, and…well, know that you'll be alright."

Jim looked at it for a moment, watched it breathe. This thing, this tiny little creature, really was a reflection of his own survival. Bones stared at him uneasily, as if waiting for approval. Finally Jim smiled, the first truly wide grin in two weeks. "I never knew you were so sentimental, Bones," he said. The doctor's face hardened and he opened his mouth to make a comeback, but Jim managed a small, hoarse laugh. "I love it."

Then Bones relaxed, his shoulders falling slightly and his gaze softening. "Yeah, okay, let's get you some more drugs before you get too mushy."

In truth, Jim was beginning to feel the effects of the receding morphine, and it was a testament to Bones' skill that he noticed the little signs of discomfort, but Jim Kirk was not one to give up.

"I'm fine, I promise," Jim said.

"Sure, Jim," Bones said wryly, and slowly Jim felt the renewed cold seeping into his veins.

"Spock's gonna be so pissed when'ee sees…" But he was out cold. The last thing he saw was the steady rise and fall of the tribble's fur as it breathed in and out.

* * *

The next time Jim woke, he was alert. He opened his eyes wide, adjusting to the dim lighting of the room.

"I am sorry, Captain; I did not intend to wake you."

Jim looked sharply to the side. Spock was halfway between standing and sitting, hovered above a nearby chair. The chair was now in the no-man's land between the wall and Jim's bed; Spock must have moved it closer.

"No worries, Spock," Jim said, resting his head back to the pillow. "What's up?"

"If you are referring to the nature of my visit," Spock said, sitting, "I was simply ensuring that you remain in good health while Doctor McCoy sleeps."

"Shit, what time is it?" Jim asked, swiveling his head in an attempt to find a clock.

Spock, of course, replied promptly. "It is nearly four hours after midnight."

Jim blinked a few times, then swallowed thickly. His sleeping schedule was _really_ screwed up.

Instead of responding, Jim nodded to Spock's chair. "So you do this a lot? Midnight vigil and all that?"

Spock paused, clearly missing the teasing in Jim's voice, and said quietly, "Yes, quite often."

Jim quieted too, and the stillness between them grew weighty, but not uncomfortable.

Finally Spock broke the silence. "Jim, your actions leading up to your death—"

"Spock," Jim said, holding up a hand.

"We thought you were dead—"

Jim's voice cracked with disuse as he raised it. "Spock, I'd…I'd rather not remember all of that now." He hesitated. "I know I'll have to remember it, but I'd rather not. Not now."

The Vulcan nodded. "Understood. Are you ready for more medication?"

"No, no," Jim said, scrunching up his face. "I'm awake now, and you're here, and…I don't want to leave you here alone again. I just need something to keep my mind off of all of the doom and gloom."

Spock considered this, cocking his head slightly. "What would you suggest?"

Jim thought for a moment, working through the sluggishness of his mind. Then a smile tugged up the corner of his mouth. "How do you feel about chess?"

* * *

The chess was slow-going at first—partly due to the fact that Jim could barely hold his arm up to move the pieces, partly because he had a bad habit of falling asleep halfway through games—but, with Spock's assistance and Jim's steadily improving health, the routine became daily.

"What's the point of chess?" Bones would grumble to himself if he ever stumbled upon a game. "If the King's so important, why can he only move one space at a time?"

"Just because he's a king doesn't mean he's all powerful, Bones," Jim would quip.

Bones would adjust the IV in the Captain's arm, muttering something about the relevance of drinking games.

One day, Jim won.

"Checkmate," he said triumphantly, his arm flopping back to the bed. He was now sitting completely up in bed, able to stay awake for as much as six hours at a time. Though dark circles were still deep under his eyes, his face had regained much of its healthy color.

Spock peered analytically at the chess pieces, eyes searching for a solution. The longer the silence stretched, the bigger Jim's smile became.

"There's nowhere else you can go, Mr. Spock," he said gleefully. "The fate of the game has been decided!"

He let out a whoop of triumphant laughter, and somewhere in the adjoining room Bones' voice called out in annoyance, "For the love of God."

"It appears, Captain, that you are correct," Spock said finally. "It was a valiantly-played game."

"I told you I'd win sometime," Jim continued. He looked up as Spock stood. "Care for a re-match?"

The Vulcan quietly gathered the pieces. "I am afraid I only have time for one game today, Captain. I, unfortunately, have other duties to attend to."

Jim rolled his eyes. "Sore loser, much?"

Spock paused, the chess board clutched under one arm as he looked long and hard at Jim. Jim's smile fell as he saw the hint of vulnerability in his First Officer's eyes. "I would be glad to see you win, Captain, as many times as you are able; but, regrettably, that will have to wait."

As the Vulcan turned to head out the door, Jim idly chewed his lip. Then, even though Spock couldn't see him, he motioned to the wall. "You've never said anything about Bones' tribble. I would have thought you'd have something snarky to say about it."

Spock paused, barely angling his head. Then: "No, Jim. In fact, I've become quite fond of it."

* * *

A week and a half after waking up, all hell broke loose.

It started innocently; Jim was sitting up in bed around midday, reading an old novel on a PADD as sunlight streamed through the windows. He could hear Bones occasionally moving around in the room next door, sometimes accompanied by the soft strains of news reports. For once, the hospital was peaceful.

Then, too fast for Jim to comprehend, the words on his PADD blurred, and all went black.

When he came to his senses, he knew something had gone wrong. The light in the room was no longer a lazy-Sunday-afternoon gold, but a near-sunset pink, indicating at least an hour and a half of time passage, and the ceiling tiles spun above him.

Uh-oh.

"Bones," he managed to croak out. The PADD that had been balanced on his legs clattered to the floor.

Blessed with a doctor's hearing, or perhaps just extreme intuition, Bones flew out from the side room and grabbed a trash bin just in time for Jim to violently empty the contents of his stomach.

"Kid—" Bones started, brow furrowed, but before he could say anything else, Jim was back over the side of the bed, the second bout culminating in fierce gagging.

To make all matters worse, the Enterprise First Officer chose that moment to enter the room.

"Doctor McCoy—" he began, concern rising in his tone.

"Bones," Jim repeated, loudly sucking in air. "I don't know what happened. I was just sitting here reading, and I passed out of nowhere, and…" The nausea swelled again, and he attempted to quell it with another breath.

Spock interjected sharply, urgently. "Doctor, diagnosis?"

Bones waved him off sloppily with one hand, resting the other against Jim's shoulder. "He's having a panic attack. Nothing serious; I'm surprised it hasn't happened sooner…"

"No, Bones!" Jim insisted. "Trust me, I know a panic attack when I feel one, and this was something else."

Considering this, Bones paused. Then, seemingly unconvinced, he crossed his arms. "You said you just passed out? For how long?"

"At least an hour," Jim replied. "You know me, Bones. I wouldn't even say anything unless I knew something was up."

There was truth in that statement, and Bones knew it. Finally he conceded, turning around to grab his tricorder. Jim reclined back against the pillows once more. Every part of his body, it seemed, trembled. He fought back the post-vomiting weakness as Spock took a seat across the room and Bones began waving his tricorder around.

The room was still for a few moments, and Jim was about to make a joke about the solemnity of the situation when Spock cleared his throat.

"Doctor…"

"Yes, what is it?" Bones' brow was furrowed much too deeply for his own good, Jim thought.

"I was simply observing the tribble you brought in last week," Spock continued, his voice so precisely level it could have cut steel. "It appears…it appears that the tribble has died."

* * *

"What do you mean, it died?" Jim was saying, rambling. "It can't just _die_; it was perfectly healthy…"

Spock stared straight ahead. The world was collapsing much too quickly.

"Jim…" Bones' face had taken on a dangerously ashen pallor. He waved the tricorder over the Captain's body again and again, the blood draining out of his face with every pass. "Jim, something's gone wrong…"

"Not now, Bones," Jim said, waving him away. "I want to know why that tribble died—"

"Jim," Bones insisted, finally withdrawing his arm. "Your cells; they've begun to deteriorate."

That gave Jim pause. Spock stood.

"Doctor, are you suggesting…"

"Khan's blood has stopped working," Bones muttered to himself. "It's not protecting him against the radiation…"

"What does that mean?" Jim said cautiously.

Bones ignored him. "The tribble…" The doctor practically sprinted across the room to Spock and wasted no time ripping the lid off of the cage. His expression grew darker and darker the more he brandished around the tricorder.

"The blood stopped working." He repeated the mantra to himself, each syllable the falling of a hammer. "Effects reversed…no longer sustained life…"

"I'm…I'm dying, then?" Jim said quietly. The heart monitor sped up slightly at his words. "Is that what this means?"

Bones measured his words carefully before speaking. "It means that we're going to have to find some way to—"

"I'm dying," Jim continued, voice rising. "Bones, please…" The heart monitor screamed now.

"Okay, _now_ you're having a panic attack," Bones said matter-of-factly, reverting naturally back to the steady-handed doctor. "Calm down. It'll be alright."

"It won't be, though; that's the thing!" Jim's voice broke. "You can't _fix_ this, Bones; you know as well as I do!"

Bones marched around the biobed and selected a hypo. The out-of-control screeches of the heart monitor rang through the room. "This is just a sedative; it will put you under for a few hours so you can calm down."

As he approached Jim with the hypo, the Captain cringed away violently. "I can't _sleep_, Bones, if I don't know how much time I have—"

Bones looked up from under his eyebrows. "Mr. Spock."

The Vulcan walked over smoothly, wordlessly. He pressed a hand against Jim's shoulder, effectively pinning the writhing man to the bed.

"Bones!" Jim yelled, panic and desperation striking in his voice. "Please!"

The doctor plunged the hypo into his neck, and the effect was instantaneous in the weaker man.

Still, Jim fought. He cursed, he thrashed, he stubbornly refused to let his eyes close.

"Just let go, kid," Bones said softly. "Just let go."

And, eventually, Jim had no choice. His movements grew sluggish, he slumped in his bed. Then, with one final struggle, his eyes rolled up in his head and the sedative dragged him under.

"Jesus," Bones said wearily. Within a second of Jim losing consciousness, his hands, the steadiest hands on the ship, began shaking so uncontrollably that he was forced to set the hypo down. He covered his face in his hands and sat heavily. "Jesus," he repeated, but this time his voice was higher, cracking, the beginnings of a sob.

"Doctor?" Spock said levelly. "The Captain—Jim—there is nothing you can do?"

Bones was mute, and the question left a jagged wound in the silence.

* * *

**Part two coming soon. Let me know how I'm doing-it's always a joy to hear from readers!**

**Thank you for reading!**

**Till next time,**

**-Penn**


	2. Decline

**Well, here it is! Thank you all so much for your kind words and alerts on this story. This part was a lot tougher to write, for multiple reasons, but I think everything that I wanted to say was said.**

**The same warnings apply to this chapter-prepare for some heavy angst!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

"Bastard."

Jim said it even before opening his eyes. The world materialized and his mind sharpened as the sedative slipped quietly away. When he finally managed to crack his eyelids open, Bones was bustling about at the bedside monitors. It was an eerily similar sight to what Jim had woken up to the first time since dying; except now, he realized, the wheel was rolling backward.

Bones didn't even look up from his work. "What was that?"

"You heard me," Jim said. "It's sort unfair, the advantage you wield with those things."

The doctor turned back and pressed an instrument to Jim's chest. "If you're referring to the sedative I gave you, it was damn well necessary. You're gonna kill yourself with those panic attacks." A vacuum opened the moment the words came out of his mouth, but there was no taking them back. Bones paused in his movements briefly, every muscle perfectly still, then turned sharply to the side and away. The silence stretched out tightly—an awkward that had never existed between the two. Jim swallowed.

"Is there anything you can do?" he asked finally.

Bones' next words were careful, heavy. "I tried a few things while you were out. Tests, theories…" He arranged some instruments on a side table methodically, compulsively. "I couldn't find…anything."

The defeat and utter helplessness in his voice scared Jim most of all.

"Khan's blood?" Jim offered. He wondered briefly what that would be like: living his life month by month on vials of another man's blood.

The doctor shook his head. "No chance. You're immune to it now. Like…having chicken pox." He paused. "I'll keep trying, though, Jim. You know I will. I won't give up on you."

Something in Jim's heart knew, though, that it was a false hope. He licked his too-dry lips. Had it only been a few hours ago that he'd been reading peacefully in the afternoon sun?

"You're…you're sure that this is happening? It's not just some fluke?"

Bones kept his back turned. His voice was low, harsh. "You saw the tribble."

Jim quieted. "I'm better than a tribble, though, aren't I? Bones?"

At long last Bones turned around, and his eyes were heavier than Jim had ever seen them. He attempted a smile, running a hand once playfully through Jim's hair. "Of course, kid."

But, coupled with the sadness in the doctor's eyes, the words felt hollow.

* * *

Uhura, surprisingly, was the first to visit. Of course, most of the bridge crew—Jim's friends—had stopped by at least briefly during his recovery. But now, in light of recent developments, he was sharply aware of the new atmosphere. There might as well have been a ticking bomb in the center of his room, a tangible force that repelled people from the terrifying descent of failing health.

So, naturally, Jim was surprised to see someone other than Bones or Spock walk through the doors one afternoon. Uhura's ponytail swung left to right as she stepped into the room, and Jim smiled at the bit of familiarity amidst the crumbling world.

"Hey, stranger," he said, flashing one of his trademark smiles that always annoyed Bones so much. Uhura responded with a hesitant smile of her own.

"Hey," she said. She looked around the room, swallowing. "Where's Doctor McCoy?"

Flapping his hand in front of his face, Jim made an impassive noise. "You know him, always running around doing more than he should. He's off doing tests or something." He looked at the ceiling with a wry smile. "It was actually kind of nice having him off of my back for once."

Being alone was not a new concept to Jim Kirk; but he knew, in a part of him he refused to address at the moment, that very soon he would never be alone. Very soon, he knew, Bones—and perhaps Spock as well—would not be leaving his side for an instant.

He pushed that thought away again.

"What's that?" he asked, eager for once to draw attention from himself.

Still at the door, Uhura looked down at the bundle in her arms and shifted it awkwardly. "Oh. You know; I was just doing some baking at my apartment, and I thought…I thought you might want a little something."

Glancing once more at Jim, she pulled up Spock's usual chair and unwrapped the bundle. Immediately the smell hit Jim. After so long breathing in the stale scent of disinfectant, the sweetness made his mouth water immediately.

"Cookies?" he asked eagerly, sitting up in bed. "And not from a replicator?"

Finally a true smile broke across Uhura's features. "I _knew_ you'd be reduced to a small child as soon as you saw them."

"You know me too well," he said. He reached out and grabbed one of the cookies without another word and began devouring it as Uhura shifted in her seat.

Finally, after Jim had finished one cookie and was reaching for a second, the Lieutenant spoke hesitantly. "How are you feeling?"

Ah, the dreaded question.

"Cheeky," Jim replied with a wink.

A ghost of a smile crossed Uhura's features, but Jim knew instantly that he wouldn't be getting off so easily. Knowing what was coming, he set his cookie sadly to the side.

"You're not…hurting, are you?" The question was hesitant, uncomfortable, a tone of not knowing quite what to ask a sick person.

Jim swallowed. In truth, it was coming back—the headaches, the body pain, the weakness—and his stomach tightened with fear whenever he felt the symptoms returning.

Instead of answering, he stared straight at the ceiling.

"Sorry," Uhura said, backtracking quickly. "I know you probably don't want to talk about all of this."

Jim considered this. Bones had been slowly upping his morphine, despite his protests, and the drug seemed to make all of his thoughts sticky. Jumbled.

Finally he asked the only question he could think of. "How's Spock doing?"

He didn't look at Uhura as she spoke, but he could sense the sudden tension in her body. "We haven't talked much, to be honest," she admitted. "He's withdrawn. If he's not working, he's here. Or in meditation."

Pause. "Make sure he takes care of himself, okay?"

"I'll do my best."

Gaze focused ahead, Jim nodded sharply. "He'll be a great Captain. You have no reason to worry."

"Worry?" Uhura said sharply. Jim turned his head and met Uhura's flustered, disbelieving expression. "Jim, you do understand that this isn't about the _Enterprise_? This is about our _family_. Don't you realize how much it's killing all of us, having to sit here and watch you deteriorate before our eyes? Me and Spock and Scotty—we've seen it already." She shook her head. "Don't you realize that everyone around you is affected by you _dying_?"

"I already did once," he snapped. "Why's this any different?"

"Because we had hope," Uhura retorted. "We thought we had you back. Now…we just have to _watch._"

Jim pushed past the fiery knot that had suddenly sprung up in his throat to speak. "It's okay to be scared, Uhura."

Then, without provocation, Uhura did something he could never have expected: she rose from her chair, bent closer, and kissed him softly on the cheek.

"I know," she said, "and I hope you do too."

* * *

As it turned out, Uhura's cookies did not bode well for his compromised system.

Bones was there within seconds after the retching began, despite the late hour. He helped clean up the half-asleep Captain and adjusted a few of the monitors wordlessly, grumbling to himself as usual. The prick of an IV in Jim's arm elicited an indignant yelp.

"No more solid foods for you," was all Bones said.

Jim looked sideways at the plate of remaining cookies dolefully. It was irrational, he supposed, but he wished silently that he could have tasted them one more time.

* * *

There was no denying it now; Jim was deteriorating quickly.

The days passed dizzyingly to Bones, like a continuous bad dream that fluttered through terrors one by one with increasing potency. In times like these, he cursed his medical license. He envied Spock, who sat at Jim's bedside and played chess, picking up the pieces as the Captain's arm became weaker and weaker.

Bones envied him, because those chess games were the last of the Vulcan's responsibilities to Jim. They were the only thing left that could be given.

Bones, on the other hand, felt the weight of Jim's condition with such force that it crushed the breath from him. He monitored the vitals, upped the morphine levels bit by bit, cleaned up the messes, but he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that he should be _doing_ something. He was a doctor, dammit—what was the point of his training if he could do nothing but watch his friend die?

And what was the point of the universe allowing him to bring back his friend at all, if he would be tormented now by the weight of this new failure?

"I've let you down, Jim," he confessed quietly one night, grasping a sleeping Jim's hand gently. "God, I'm so sorry."

There was a part of him, a part of him that was so selfish he would never acknowledge it, that wished Jim Kirk had stayed dead.

* * *

Jim dreamed of the beach.

Growing up in Iowa, surrounded by golden corn and an infinite sky, he'd never actually been to a beach. He'd read about them, sure, in some of his school reading material, but visiting one had never seemed important. Or feasible, for that matter.

But he saw the beach now, clear as a photograph.

The sun was setting, and the waves lapped slowly. He trod barefoot on the still-warm sand and felt his feet sink softly with each step. He made it through the velvet dry sand and kept walking until he hit the water line, where he paused to take in the sight.

This, too, was infinite. Yet, he felt that if he just reached far enough, perhaps the horizon was not so far away after all.

As he stood, a wave rolled up to meet him with the gentle _shhh_ of the sea. It swelled up, curling fresh and bright around his toes, the light sparkling and the coolness of it seeping through his skin; then, just as the water crested, it faded away.

* * *

A week and a half into the Captain's decline, Bones rose from his sleepless state at a muffled sound from the other room. Every noise, however small, was now cause for investigation.

He wasn't expecting what he found.

Curled in on himself in the dark, Jim was shaking. One arm was stuck out awkwardly to accommodate the IV, the pale skin mottled now by bruises, while the other was wrapped loosely around his stomach. After a moment, Bones realized what the sound had been.

Jim was crying. In that instant, his body trembled violently once more—a hollow, deep sob that rose up from his stomach.

Bones' face crumpled, and he bridged the distance between the door and the bed in less than a second.

"What hurts?" he said, placing a hand on each of Jim's shoulders. "What hurts?"

Jim didn't say anything. He didn't have to. Bones knew, and he understood.

* * *

The Captain lay prone—he was no longer capable of sitting upright for long periods of time—and stared up at the ceiling. His eyes were glazed, unfocused, a result of the gas pumping through his system. Spock eyed the plastic piece that covered Jim's mouth and nose. Of course, he knew theoretically the effects of the crude administration of nitrous oxide: the feeling of lightness through the body, a tingling sensation, disjointedness, muted pain and anxiety. However, despite all of his scientific background knowledge, he still felt an unsettling disconnect from the man lying a few feet from him.

Bones emptied the contents of a final hypospray into Jim's arm, then swiped the mask from the Captain's face. "Well, that's enough of that. Your head should start to clear up in a few seconds."

Jim blinked a few times, the dazed look in his eyes slowly fading. "Jeez, Bones, I never thought I'd convince you to let me do drugs under your supervision."

The doctor scoffed. "Maybe if you hadn't insisted on bringing down your morphine levels, I wouldn't have needed to calm you down so fast."

"Right," Jim said. Spock could tell by the slight tightening of Jim's muscles that the drug was already almost out of his system. "I think you just wanted to see me high."

With an exaggerated exhale, Bones turned away to put away his equipment.

Two weeks since the initial decline. Spock had counted each hour of each day with extreme precision, unable to turn off the part of his brain that projected the probable remaining life of his Captain. Things had, undeniably, taken a turn for the worse. Jim, fed up with a constant state of drowsiness, had managed to wheedle Bones into lowering his morphine. However, the radiation poisoning was now back with a vengeance. Pain levels spiked unpredictably, twice now eliciting the beginnings of panic attacks from the ever-defiant Jim.

This one had happened in the middle of a chess game.

"C'mon, Spock. One more game."

Jim reached a hand out feebly, but Spock continued to pack up the rest of the pieces. "I must insist, Captain," he said. "You are not well."

"He's right, you know," Bones said. "You need to rest." The doctor looked up at Spock. "I need to pick up a few things. You alright staying here for a bit?"

The question, Spock thought, was illogical. He and the doctor had kept a constant vigil in Jim's room for three days now, only pausing for brief periods of rest. Bones now looked just as haggard, or more so, as he had in the days following Khan's transfusion.

By now, Bones could practically read the Vulcan's thoughts. He nodded. "I won't be gone long." The truth in his statement was painfully obvious.

As Bones vacated the room, Jim frowned at Spock. "You know, you're going to be no fun when you're Captain."

Spock paused briefly in his clean-up of the chess game, but it was clear that the jibe was not rooted in hostility.

Here he was, finally beginning to understand the nuances of human sarcasm, just as the one who had taught him to be human was slipping away.

And suddenly he was hit with such a tidal wave of emotion that his hands began to shake.

All he could think of was the sheer number of chess games that would go un-played.

"Spock? I was kidding, you know."

The Vulcan looked up to meet Jim's gaze, blinking furiously in an attempt to put his emotional walls back up.

"I'm sorry, Jim," he said quietly.

"For what?" Jim retorted. "For being human? Spock, promise me something; promise me you'll never apologize for actually feeling something."

"I will consider it," Spock said dryly, relishing Jim's smirk. "But I am also sorry...on your behalf." He softened. "Nobody deserves this less than you, Jim."

At this, Jim heaved a sigh. As he turned his head, Spock could see the droplets of sweat on his forehead, and with a twinge the Vulcan realized just how hard his friend was fighting—on their behalf. "I'm sorry, too," the Captain said, "but there's nothing more to be done. I'm through, Spock. Giving my life to save others? Not the worst way to go." He turned now to meet Spock's eyes again. "But this isn't about me anymore. That's why..._I'm_ sorry. That I couldn't do more."

The Vulcan swallowed. "You've done more than enough. Though I do find myself...unsure of how to proceed."

Jim released another sigh, this time less tightly, and blinked heavily. Spock noted, now, how remarkably weary he looked.

"All I ask is that you continue performing admirably," Jim said.

Spock nodded minutely at the excruciatingly-familiar words. "Yes, Captain." After a moment, he added, "Are you feeling well?"

The other man sagged into his pillows. "Just…tired." His head lolled to the side in exhaustion, and he stretched one arm out toward Spock. The Vulcan hesitated a moment, then extended his own hand to take Jim's. Jim squeezed his fingers weakly.

They remained that way, Jim's tremor-filled hand grasping Spock's fingers, until the Captain ultimately drifted to sleep; and Spock, engulfed in the murmurs of the hospital equipment, kept his hold long after that.

* * *

Bones knew the time had come even before the medical readouts gave an indication. He knew his best friend too well.

His heart broke as a cough ripped through Jim's body.

"Bones," he croaked.

"I know, kid," Bones said, clutching the other man's warm hand. He looked up at Spock. _This is it._

Jim blinked rapidly a few times, seemingly unable to focus. "Can we go outside?"

"What?" The request startled Bones at first, but then he realized: Jim had felt fresh air in more than a month. "I can't—"

"Yeah, I know you can't keep me hooked up to all this anymore," Jim said with a limp hand gesture. "Screw it. Don't want my last memory to be a hospital room." He paused, eventually managing a shadow of his trademark quirked smile. "Come on, Bonesy. Be a rebel."

Bones considered this for a few moments. Jim would fade faster if he was taken off of the machines, but the doctor knew, in the recesses of his heart, that it would be a selfish act to keep the Captain there.

Finally, shaking his head, he stood and began disengaging the machines. "You little shit. Breaking the rules until the end." As he slid the IV from Jim's arm, he looked up at Spock. "Get me a hoverchair, will you?"

Spock complied instantly, disappearing into a back room. As Bones finished his work, Jim caught his wrist. "Thank you, Bones." The sincerity in those blue eyes caught Bones off guard. It was a simple phrase, but the layers of meaning were not lost.

He softened. "Always, Jim."

A few seconds later Spock returned with the hoverchair, and between the three of them they managed to maneuver Jim into the seat. Thankfully, it was the middle of the night, and there were hardly any people in the hallways as they proceeded. The few nurses that they did pass nodded respectfully, and Jim did his best to nod back.

At last they reached their destination—the terrace on the roof of the hospital. The night was chill, but not overtly so. Once they reached the edge of the terrace, Bones fondly tucked a blanket around Jim's shoulders. It was perhaps an unnecessary gesture, as the Captain was now burning up, but the protective instinct was not yet lost.

"It's a great view," Jim said. "You did good."

Again, the double meaning lingered in the night air. Bones ruffled Jim's sweaty hair as he used to in their Academy days. "I do what I can." His hand fell to Jim's shoulder, and he saw that, opposite, Spock's hand now rested on the arm of the chair. It would have made a fine picture, Bones thought.

"Look at it," Jim said. His voice was growing alarmingly faint. "The stars."

Bones looked up, too, and for the first time saw what Jim was seeing. Above them, the galaxies spread out infinitely, each star just one token in the glittering canvas. Bones glanced down at Jim. The Captain was mesmerized, the limitless lights reflected in his eyes. Bones looked back up again.

He didn't know when he started to cry. The tears came silently.

"You both have so many stories to live out there," Jim said warmly. "So many." He closed his eyes. "Take care of her." The _Enterprise_. Of course. "And take care of each other."

After a brief, heavy quiet, Spock cleared his throat. "It will be an honor, Jim, as it was an honor caring for you."

A minute of silence.

Perhaps the universe had provided Jim one last great mirage, a hallucination or delusion in a sick man's mind—he sat in his chair with his friends on either side, and the stars pressed around them, and the soft trilling of midnight life could almost echo the sounds of a great starship. His voice was thin with his illusion, but he spoke once more, at peace.

"Steady as she goes."

* * *

**...**

**Is it safe to come out and face you all?**

**Sorry for the bucketful of angst, but in my mind the end was always going to be sad. If you'd like, you can imagine that Jim miraculously recovered from this point, but this is the story I wanted to tell.**

**Above all, I hope the story turned out alright! Please let me know what you thought, and maybe anything you'd like to see next! I'm not sure what I'll be working on.**

**Bonus points if you can identify the two lines from classic Trek (one is fairly obvious, the other more obscure) or where the title comes from!**

**Till next time, loves,**

**-Penn**


End file.
